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Page 16.
Chapter 9
 After the strange, haunting, maybe crazy interview with Ibrahim Shoob, David prepared to leave Walter Reed Army Medical Center to interview Mary Corcoran. First, though, he commed Tory on his lapel phone-button to ask about Shoob. A clerk answered: “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Lieutenant Breen isn’t here this morning.”
“Are you expecting her back?” David glanced at the clock. It was noon.
“Hmm... She’s at the Pentagon—oh, here she comes now.” The clerk took a moment to transfer the call from her com button to Tory’s. “Hello?” Tory said.
“I hear you were at the Pentagon,” David said. “About our man Shoob and his flying saucer story?”
She laughed. “No, it was a personal matter. You think Ib is full of beans?”
“He’s full of something, and I only hope it’s not really what he says.”
“I know,” she said darkly.
“Hell of a greeting card to send me. Why me?”
“You said people bring you problems. Okay, there’s a problem.” She paused. “All right, so I also wondered if we could have lunch sometime.”
“I was trying to figure out a way to ask you that,” he said.
“See, so that’s solved. Can you help Ib?”
“I don’t know. Is he—I mean, he’s not nuts or anything? Drink? Take drugs?”
“He’s as straight as arrows get, Captain.”
“Say, if we’re going to lunch, can you just call me Dave and I’ll call you Tory?”
“Hmmm. I’ll call you David. You’re more of a David than a Dave.”
“Though you’re more of a Tory than a Victoria.”
“Yes, please call me Tory. Sort of breaks the ice a little better.”
“Tomorrow? Noon?”
With her byyye! echoing in his ears, David left for Walter Reed carrying his briefcase. Rather than drive through the insane traffic, he took a shuttle bus on Jankowsky’s advice. He wore his regulation raincoat over his fatigues, for the crisp autumn sky was clouding up and the first few droplets feathered the windshield of the shuttle van. The 9 mm. NATO standard rode high and awkwardly inside the coat.
It was lunch time, and he was hungry. He checked his watch. He had time before his scheduled interview, so he found his way to the cafeteria. He entered a clamor of people and dinnerware. The huge room was filled with the aromas of beef, bread, and coffee. David joined a long line and shuffled along inches at a time, holding his tray.
He’d noticed a cloverleaf of helicopter pads near the building. A group of flight-suited pilots and nurses sat at a table in the bustling cafeteria. He noticed a hand waving, then a certain ash-blond head—Maxie! He waved back, and she lit up with a grin of delight and waved again.
He bought his lunch and, awkwardly holding the tray and briefcase, made his way to a free table near her. She joined him, looking dashing in her olive green flight suit, pockets brimming with gear, stethoscope draped around her neck, camo fatigues bloused into jump boots. She had evidently finished lunch and brought along her cup of steaming coffee.
“Hey you!” he said. She slid in opposite him in the booth. He added: “Been a medevac pilot long?”
“Combat flight nurse.” She whacked his arm. “Silly.”
“You look incredibly cool in your flight suit—say, your roommate sent me a zinger.”
“I was kinda hoping she would.” Maxie radiated conspiracy.
“This is a real zinger, Maxie.”
“Is that good or bad? I mean, is a zinger like a kiss, or is it—?”
“Either the guy she sent is ready for St. Elizabeth’s, or we’re all in big trouble.”
“Oh that. Tory mentioned it but said she couldn't go into detail. There’s an explanation for everything,” Maxie said. “You watch and see. You ought to call Tory and thank her for sending you business.”
“I already did. We’re having lunch tomorrow.”
“Ooo. You work fast.”
“You’re very helpful,” he said, grinning. “Thanks.”
The MAES detachment cleared out in a body, carrying trays and mugs. Maxie excused herself to tag along. She kissed her index finger and placed the kiss on his cheek. As she hurried off, David looked around to see if anyone had noticed the kiss—a no-no for people in uniform. But that was Maxie. He chuckled to himself as he speared a chunk of beef dripping with gravy. If Maxie got to be a general, people would probably have to kiss each other rather than salute.
A quarter hour later, David found himself in a completely different space. He waited in a corridor that smelled severely of Army floor polish. A nurse stepped into a patient room to announce his arrival. The nurse whispered: “She’s just been sedated, so she’ll be out again. You could talk with her for a minute.” The nurse motioned for him to step inside, then positioned the door halfway open behind him. Twilight filled a four-bed room that smelled of fruit or soap or something. Shafts of sunlight angled in through venetian blinded windows. As David’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, the curtains and the draped beds looked shroud-like. On a night table, David saw the source of the smell: a large basket of flowers, and a love letter; the husband, poor guy. “Mary?’
“Yes.” The voice was a whisper, a moan. He followed its faint echo to a corner bed. And stopped at a grotesque sight. Blinking, he saw what looked like a Hallow E’en pumpkin wrapped in a sheet, grinning at him. As his eyes dilated further in the underwater light, he made sense of what he saw. A woman of nondescript age was sitting, propped up with pillows in a hospital bed, a poignant reminder that rape was a crime of violence, not sexuality. She was draped in sheets except for her head. Her eyes were swollen like plums. Her upper lip had been split, revealing her teeth, and was scabbing over. She raised a hand, and David took it. It felt dry, and warm, and firm. She whispered: “I look worse than I feel. It hurts to smile, hon.”
“I’m glad you have your sense of humor, Mary.” David pulled up a chair. He introduced himself. “I wish we’d known more about this sooner.”
“That’s my fault, Captain. I didn’t want to make waves.”
“Nothing is your fault about this, Mary, nothing. You’re the victim of a bad guy and the Army hasn’t been so swift taking care of you either.”
“They are taking good care of me, Sir.”
“You’re a good soldier.” David sighed in frustration. “Mary—?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Maybe we can piece together your story and figure out some way to help other women a little sooner, maybe prevent things like this happening.”
“Yes.” Her plum lids appeared to be narrowing.
“Mary, you went to see the Chaplain. Did someone in that office meet with you?”
“Yes.”
“How did you present your story?”
She licked her lips and spoke slowly. “I was crying a lot. The sergeant was very nice.”
“Which sergeant?”
“Composite Force ... Chaplain’s ... Office.” It was a whisper.
“Did he write everything down?”
She whispered something, and David asked her to repeat. “Recording,” she said.
“Did they promise they would talk with the man?”
“Yes. But ... couldn’t.”
David frowned. “Why not?”
“Top Five.”
“Pardon me?”
Mary’s eyes were shut, and her breathing was becoming regular. As he watched her sleep, her hands gripped the edge of the sheet. Her head tilted back, her face assumed a look of fright. She shook her fists ineffectually and moaned at some awful dream. He tried to comfort her, squeezing her hands gently until they relaxed onto her stomach and he covered them with a sheet. He wanted badly to see the guy who’d done this put away. And he was puzzled by her last statement. What was Top Five? And why couldn’t the chaplain’s assistant talk with her assailant?
A shuttle bus took David south on 16th Street. At Dupont Circle he changed shuttles west into the armed camp surrounding the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center, near the Islamic Mosque and Cultural Center adjacent to Rock Creek Park.
There were small demonstrations going on outside the barbed wire barriers, but police were out in force, at least equal in number to the demonstrators. Through a thin drizzle, the sky glowed with bright opal light lacking penetrating power. Thick shadows brimmed behind every shiny surface.
David left the shuttle and walked toward the hotel. National Guard troops in fatigues and MP insignia were massed behind plywood blinds just inside the barbed wire. David was stopped at several checkpoints by National Guard soldiers in fatigues, helmets, and field gear, carrying rifles. The ring of barbed wire around the Atlantic stretched four city blocks. Engineer troops were dividing the streets around the hotel using tank traps. Flatbed trucks hauled in the man-size concrete pyramids, and cranes lifted them into place every few feet, three rows deep, to stop any bomb-carrying vehicle. David walked through a zigzag lane in the tank traps, past soldiers in sandbagged machine-gun nests. The hotel had a huge underground parking garage three floors deep. David boarded another shuttle that detoured through underground caverns filled with olive-green military vehicles. He glimpsed shaven-headed soldiers carrying heavy ammunition boxes, cleaning rifles, repairing equipment. For a moment he thought they were either Marines or Army Airborne, but the uniforms were different—their fatigue mottling was a subdued blue and yellow he’d never seen before. The shuttle let its passengers disembark in front of the main hotel entrance of Tower 1.
The Atlantic had a vast, domed meeting hall off to one side, similar to the U.N. building in New York, but with three towers instead of one. The towers and the hall shared access through a magnificent five-story lobby and greenhouse containing a living rain forest. David enjoyed his walk through the miniature jungle and took an elevator up into Tower 3. The Atlantic was a line of three 35-story towers, joined in the first five floors by a magnificent lobby. Tower 1, in which currently the CON2 delegates stayed, also boasted the main entrance to the entire complex. Tower 2 served as barracks for several thousand lower-ranking enlisted personnel. Tower 3 served as an office building, headquarters, and military command post.
First, David visited the Chaplain’s office. He got to speak with a staff sergeant William Duester, who had been Mary Corcoran’s contact. Duester was a small, trim man with light-brown hair and a thick maple-colored mustache. His quick gray eyes were at once sympathetic and hard. He rose and offered David a seat. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
“I understand you recorded a conversation with a Sergeant Mary Corcoran, who was raped and beaten a few days later. She also contacted our office, and I’m just sorry that we didn’t act sooner.”
Duester nodded. “I agree with you there, Sir. I feel the same way.” His eyes had a troubled glitter. “Trouble is, Top Five has confiscated both our copies.”
“Top Five?”
“General Montclair’s headquarters, Sir. They’re strictly off-limits to us, but they can nose around here all they want. The Chaplain objected, but Colonel Bronf insisted. That’s the story I got. Anyway, I don’t have the recording to give you. It’s gone. Unless you can find a way to get up to Top Five and get it back.” He laughed. “I’m joking. Nobody goes up there.”
TOP
Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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